Amputation
by homeric
Summary: Tristan has a very bad day.


**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"It had to be done." Dagonet's voice was weary as he slumped back against the wall of the tavern. "There was nothing I could do."

Vanora reached over and patted the healer's arm gently, her eyes sympathetic as she tried to bestow a little comfort. "You did your best love, it's not as though you wanted to do it."

Dagonet shrugged in acknowledgement, but he was well aware of Gawain and Galahad's accusing eyes upon him. "What?" He snapped irritably. "Do you think I should have left him to suffer? I noticed that you two made yourselves scarce when the job needed to be done."

"I know." Galahad squirmed guiltily, making him look even younger than usual. "It's just, it's Tristan and I felt so bad about him being…"

"Mutilated." Gawain supplied when his friend tried and failed to come up with a suitable word to describe his distress. "And I'm sorry, Dag; I know we should have been there, but I hate seeing him suffer, and he hates any of _us _seeing him suffer, so I thought it best to stay away. I'll go and visit him later - I'll…" His voice trailed off as he tried to think of something that he could offer the scout in order to raise his spirits. A glance at Galahad who just shook his head and gazed morosely at the table was an eloquent reminder that in truth there wasn't anything that he could do for his friend. Tristan would see any offer of comfort as pity, and as such an insult, and since Gawain didn't fancy becoming target practice for the scout's legendary knife throwing skills, staying in the tavern and getting drunk was probably the best option.

"Is it true that it took five soldiers to hold him down?" Galahad almost whispered.

Taking a deep drink of his ale, Dagonet gestured to the serving girl for more before he answered.

"Eight," he said finally. "He knocked one out and two ran away. The others couldn't get out of the healing rooms fast enough when it was over. I don't blame them - I've never had a patient fight like that before."

"Come now." In an attempt to raise the knights' spirits Vanora gave a decent approximation of her usual smile. "Tristan is still alive - he'll be right as rain once he has time to… adjust."

"Tristan won't adjust," Galahad muttered darkly. "Not from something like this."

Gawain nodded in agreement. "He'll see himself as being some sort of cripple." Finishing his ale, he reached for the fresh tankard the sweet faced serving girl placed before him. "He'll probably pick a fight with the Romans and get himself killed."

"Or go into the forest and get shot by Woads," Galahad added forlornly.

"Or go up north and get hacked to pieces by Saxons." Dagonet gave a dejected sigh and rubbed his forehead as though he had a headache. "Or…"

"Oh for goodness sake." Vanora let out her breath in huff of annoyance. "Now you're all just being silly. Tristan's had his hair cut, that's all, and given the amount of nits crawling about in it, a good thing too. The itching was driving him mad, no wonder Arthur told him to cut it."

"But it's Tristan." More than a little drunk, Galahad gave the red-haired woman a baleful look.

"It's his hair," Gawain said solemnly.

"And even if Arthur ordered it he won't…" Dagonet fell silent as the tavern door opened and the subject of their conversation stalked in. Angular features emphasised by short ragged hair that in places looked as though it had been torn out rather than cut, Tristan stalked over to the terrified serving girl, grabbed the jug of ale from her hands and downed it in a couple of deep swallows. Thrusting it back at her, he chucked a couple of coins onto the table and marched back outside, shooting Dagonet a glare that, if the phrase "if looks could kill" held true, would have left the big knight a small pile of smouldering ash.

As he shoved open the door it was only Gawain's swift reflexes that enabled him to clap a hand over Galahad's mouth and prevent him from uttering a comment that would likely get him eviscerated.

In the echoing silence after the door slammed, silencing all the patrons and sending the pigeons nesting in the rafters clattering in to the air, Vanora gave the knights a weak smile.

"If any of you have sparring practice today, perhaps it might be best not to choose Tristan as your partner…"

**A/N: Just a daft little thing... I don't know whether "nits" is a universal term (are they perhaps "cooties" in US slang?) Anyway, I'm referring to those little critters that live in hair and seem to be traded faster between kids than High School Musical cards. Come on, tell me you never looked at Tristan's hair and wondered what was living in it ;)**


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